Speak to me about regrets
as you reassure me I'm making the right choice

Talk to me about the fragility of human beings
as you remind me how strong I am

Tell me about the human memory
as you promise you'll never forget this moment

Mutter that I'm perfect as I am
as you gently hint I should ditch my bad habits

Whisper 'forever' in my ears
as you explain that life changes despite all odds

I'm asking you to be honest

Speak the two voices in your head


Instead of sugarcoating my rocks
Please, put pebbles in my sugar

Droplets tap the dusty windows
Tipping pleasure on the pane
Dribbles every time the wind blows
Prophesize a hurricane

Kisses linger on the backseat
Desperate to delight in more
Suffocated by the heat, but
When it rains, it starts to pour

Panic storm that quickly closes
Smashing waves upon the sand
Tension tearing up the roses
Stuttered poems, shaking hands

Though the pressure keeps you floating
And the ocean licks its shore
There's no way of sugarcoating
Once it rains, it has to pour

Stick a finger in your ceiling
Let the plants hang onto youth
Sunday jazz, petrichor feeling
Hear it tripping on the roof
Smell it shifting all around you
Leaking through your drying veins
Leave your stagnant dragonfly blue
Open up into the rain

When it rains, it pours
I'll blossom being yours

Downpour cleans the ***** traffic
Rippling madly down the drain
Paints the artist something graphic
While he's waiting for the train

Laughter echoes in the morning
Licking soil and clouds to raw
From the vision that's been dawning
Once you rain, it has to pour

Spitting bombshells pelt your raincoat
Tears in quiet pools of green
Holes inside your getaway boat
Water's sweet but can be mean

You've avoided all the warfare
But the stars rampage for more
Douse the thin comfort you still wear
Once it rains, it starts to pour

Stick a finger in your ceiling
Give the plants a thirsty truth
Fairy lights and freedom feeling
Tunes of our torrential youth
Smell it changing all around you
Bursting through the shrivelled veins
Leave your crippled summertime hue
Open up into the rain

When it rains, it pours,
I'll bloom so much being yours
We're a perfect storm, I guess
Fire has been stopped with less

When it rains it has to pour.

Your sugarcoating melted
when I doused you with
a steady stream of tears,
the ones you created
by stealing my heart,
then stomping all over it
with your petty fears,
the ones you created
in your jealous mind
& by doing so, you ruined
our love-connection
with your bitter
acts of juvenile-control.

And all I ever wanted
was you, not your
mean childish side.

I’ve exhausted to excess
the language
of the social construction
of whiteness
which is simulataneously
sugarcoating
the goodness of blackness
with the evil of pure white
the missionary of evil
*** death triangle reruns
on West Indies news
origin of criminality
putrid impunity
dissociative disorder
and the villain
to a great great hero
called the blackness
of humanity
which is inexhaustible
strength
laughter
and kindness
oceans
mercy
severity
beauty
love
***
origins
stability
shores
and sustainability

Sickly sweet; so nauseatingly gross:
Overly sappy idealism.
I call it saccharine, Splenda, Sucralose,
Though some call it "sentimentalism".
What's in a name? That which we call naive?
Rose-colored glasses by any other name would still be fake sweet.
I believe there is no dignity in dogmatism,
Nor valor in virginity; call me a believer in realism,
Or call me a cynic--whichever you prefer.
Does childlike innocent crust and sugar over, like a dream deferred?
The bitterness and sharpness of life's lemons,
Can't be sweetened by a sugarcoating.
And aspartame and nostalgia
Can't help you swallow your pride.

Remembrance of my juvenescence moments as a child,
I began to realize my calling as a black male.
Raised from the hood as a black ghetto boy who lived in poverty...
My intellect outwitted my age,
even though there was alot of abhorrent things I've done in the past.
My Mepa and Mema taught me how to pray,
and gracious for grandparents.
Stricken by poverty,
I excelled in reading and writing.
My daddy wasn't in my life,
but raised by a deacon and my Ma.
In elementary and middle school brawling was my skill,
and fighting made me feel strong.
Sports was my cue,
and wasn't just a scribe but was involved in physical activity.
Recalling childhood moments in Baltimore Maryland where I got ran over by a car,
but I'm not dead.
Jumped by ten ghetto black males that almost killed me in Florida...
there is Johnson blood in my dna.
It was the grace of God that kept me,
but it doesn't end there.
I used to want to become a preacher;
and the knowledge gained from studying the mosaic books,
and the insight attained from scrutinizing the new testament;
I felt like Paul who once was Saul, and began to ponder the Pharisaism life.
Knowing that Jesus wants to use me...
but stubbornness,
and resisting my calling which I'm still running from.
The feeling of abandonment...
there was love lacking in my parents house.
Filled with gall pondering why other kids had it easy;
when me and my kinfolk struggled.
Recall busting my head open with blood gushing in the shower...
almost died because majority of my blood was leaking,
but God kept me alive once again.
In this incident I was brought to the hospital to get stitches on my head...
and this is the reason my hair flourishes and grows so quick;
and why I decide to keep my afro and cherish my hair.
Nothing but God kept me,
and was suppose to be dead but it doesn't end there.
The gift within me made rehoboth...
the spirit of discernment and gift of prophecy made room bringing me before great men.
The adversary seeked to destroy me,
but I'm a Johnson with authority and power.
Thriving was necessary,
and it seemed like life itself hit me hard.
As a black child scribbling and working out was my profession.
The weights was pressed to release my anger, and I began using full strength pressing;
while pondering why other people had a easier life.
Graduated high school at age 17,
but the smile behind my face are scars.
Got kicked out my parents house 3x, and they wouldn't allow me back in...
but Jesus still had a place prepared for me.
My own kinfolk would smirk in my face and laugh at my humiliation,
but as a Johnson I'm a survivor.
They thought I wouldn't be succesful and didn't want me to go to college,
but I attended trade and got some college.
I'm sugarcoating nothing.
My stepdad which is a deacon...
me, my bigger brotha, and sister disliked him for the hell he put us through.
Truth is my Ma chose her husband over her 4 children,
which is why we felt abandoned.
There was a annoyance in the house,
and I knew light couldn't mix with darkness.
My kinfolk despised the annoting over my life, and they couldn't take me knowing my word.
Father figure I grew up without him,
but my daddy genes made me who I am.
Judged by people who couldn't last a day in my shoes,
only if they were on my level they wouldn't have sitnah.
New level there's always a new devil,
but the word hidden in my heart became a light to my path.
The nicolaitans encountered...
I began marvelling why mad deacons were ordained.
The struggles are prepping me for my future.
My vision is to become a pastor,
but it doesn't end there.
Mepa my grandpa would always say, "do you feel like God is calling you to be a minister?"
And my response was...
a inspired teacher who has the ministerial spirit who ministers.
Taken up a minister's class at a church,
but didn't complete the 6 weeks because my kinfolk hated the annoiting.
As said before light can't mix with darkness.
As a black man I realized the annoiting over my life.
Ain't sugarcoating but giving the truth,
because the truth will set me free.
Maturing as a black man;
and the lessons learned from my adolescent childhood.
I will be succesful,
and a advocate by sharing the gospel.

I am maintaining an FB account
Posting intellectual stuff only,
Things that stir the mind of my social-networking friends
By this, they will perceive me as a deep person

I am an usher in a Christian church
Giving my biggest effort to serve,
Accommodating and presentable as possible
For people to think that I am mature

I have my own network of friends
Where I can express hope, faith, and love
(In times of despair and grief, at least make it
sound that you are overcoming it)
To portray that I am reliable, independent, and a man of faith

But here in our secret place
Everything is authentic, real, and sincere
Sugarcoating exists no more
Vulnerability and honesty surely steal the show

The moment I lock the door and open the bible
And we start a conversation
I know for sure that I cannot fake it
What do you expect from Someone who can see your inner being?

This time, without a doubt, I am free
To tell everything without the fear of being judged
To argue without the feeling of being condemned
To cry and accept that I am desperate and needy

No wonder I love our time, in this secret place
A time for unbelief and faith
A time for loathing and worship
A time to be Nixen

I never fully understood the meaning of the  word “mourn” until this year -
To truly feel the loss of another concentrated in its purest form.

I never believed when others would say
“I miss you more, in  each and every day” or
“There’s not an hour goes by, without a thought of you on my mind”
As if Loss is an unforgotten constant in the trails of the trivial,
We are only human after all.

But I was naive, through and through.
Loss never leaves your side once you meet
Loss is a friend for life.
The kind that shows their face in the most unpredictable moments,
Who never fades away or falls out,
Becoming more aquatinted as we go through life.

Loss is selfish, wanting our undivided attention,
Expecting us to indulge in its deep dark thoughts with strong pretension.

Loss is harsh, not hiding nor sugarcoating any enemy attack,
Facing us with the reality of control and just how much we lack.

Loss is bitter, Loss is unkind
Loss is a thief, stealing our piece of mind.

Loss is jealous, Loss is sly.
Is it absent of Love,
Or has Love left it’s side?

So,
I may have gotten a bit drunk last night,
(See previous entry).
It seems I haven't handled my madness,
It seems I'm still suspended.

Between adulthood and childhood is a very unpleasant place to be,
If only I handled life like I handle liquor.

Each drop is a knife in the cerebellum,
Hoping it might bury the feelings,
How lucky the asexual are.

How lucky,
And how belabored I am to bear a mind like this!

Lost,
I've always been at home where I'm lost.

Now,
I'm wrapped in it.
Surrounded by it.
Penetrated by it in the most euphemistic kind of way.

Thoroughly,
It encapsulates me,
The ether of burden,
A treasure I wish I could share,
Ashamed that I wish I care.

Voices will tell me,
Shouting!
"You'll do great things, a smart boy like you."
"You've been so blessed by God."
I'm in a void of pride in a sea of aimless ambition,
To do the great,
To conquer the world,
To see the fuel of my turmoil turn to ash.

Angst would be sugarcoating it,
Anger will never describe how it feels,
To be simultaneously empty and full.
I'm at grief like a fly at a summer picnic.

I fly off the potato salad,
Off the handle,
It's thrilling to be at the mercy of giants,
Swatting hands.

Nothing seems to heal.
Nothing seems to calm,
Nothing can make up for losing God like losing a family member you never talked to.

And you wish you did,
Because life would be so much easier.

Today
The tears have managed to slip out
Bringing about the red eyes,
choked out cries
of what life is really like
Inside these four walls

At every corner
i cave
Knowing if i stand up
i will get slammed down
down to where i curl up
dead, still wishing for a better life
inside these four walls

I live in fear for tomorrow
Afraid i might finally have the courage
to press down deep enough
to expose the anger that runs through my veins
everyday
inside these four walls

Mother and father is what they call themselves
nuturing us with love and care
protecting us from the evil that is out there
but is there a difference from the evil out there
and the evil that is stained
on these four walls

Forced to play by their rules
We follow them blindly
even with the ocassional abuse
"you're not white" excuse
marks of bruises
that show our traditional ways of life
inside these four walls.

Crying is not allowed
no sugarcoating when we're down
we live only for your purpose
of control and possession
choices made under your disgretion
indide these four walls
it's all i've ever known
there's no place like home.